


death dealing

by Kore518



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Angst and Feels, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, Geraskier post mountain, Hannibal Lecter Being Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannigram - Freeform, Horny Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, No Sex, Poor Jaskier | Dandelion, Poor Will, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Potion Affected Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Protective Witchers (The Witcher), Slow Build, Vampire Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 11:02:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kore518/pseuds/Kore518
Summary: Master vampire Hannibal takes it personally when Will suffers wounds at the hands of one of the Continent's greatest hunters. The hunter, in turn, takes it personally when the love of his life disappears... again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	death dealing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by both shows being on HIATUS :)  
> Hannibal is more a "normal" vampire than a Witcher/Regis/Sapkowski one (sry)  
> All universe/plot inconsistencies are my own (sry again)  
> V slow build so bear with me here.

Will was dying. Hannibal smelled it. The copper-sharp stench filled his lungs, bulldozing past the edges of his sharply honed control as he buried elbow-deep inside Will, mending even as he wanted to rip. Fangs pierced his tongue over and over as he drowned in Will’s sweet scent, hands fleeting from one instrument to the next, a master conducting a symphony for his Adonis. Every note must be perfect, or the Faceless One would claim their next initiate. Not Will. Not yet. They were not finished. For the first time in Hannibal’s existence, he begged. Silently. Resolutely. His hands never stopped moving, piecing Will’s tender flesh back together. More stitches. More infusions. Deaf to the world but for the sound of Will’s heartbeat regaining the tempo that Hannibal had memorized, listened for even when he was resting, and could barely hear now.

Will’s pulse was slow and staggering. Hannibal lived an eternity between one beat and the next. His hands flew as he reconstructed Will with surgical precision. The metallic aroma was in his mouth and in his nose and his tongue was butcher’s meat but Hannibal would have ripped it from his throat, torn himself asunder with his bare hands, if it meant Will opened his eyes once more. Hannibal worked, and the sun sank, and he did not stop moving. Will’s heartbeat stuttered rather than hummed the notes that Hannibal had all but carved into his bones.

Later, in the deepest part of the night, when hands had finally stilled and could do nothing more; when the maestro had completed his movement and awaited a response; when the sun had fled its furthest from the sky and risked being flayed from the very heavens if it returned and Will did not—a gasp. Too soft for a human’s ears, but to Hannibal it was the rush of a waterfall, the roar of a summer storm in the middle of the sea. Will gasped, and Hannibal let out his breath and listened hazily to Will’s pulse, an echo of its normal dance but steady nonetheless. Hannibal sat, inhaling the night and Will and his heart, and listened to the quiet.

The hunter was a dead man. Hannibal knew how to take care of himself, knew that he had survived ages by his own wits alone and that he could handle whatever the humans dared to throw at him. Until William. That pesky little mortal had infiltrated every one of Hannibal’s carefully constructed defenses and laid him out bare. Hannibal would be amused if he wasn’t so barbaric. That fucking hunter had dared to lay a hand on what was his, dared to threaten his pet, the only creature in lifetimes that Hannibal had allowed himself to have—

No. The hunter had yielded his life as forfeit the moment he tried to get to Hannibal through young Will. Hannibal had sworn to Will that he would feed far from the campus, would not dare lay hand on his colleagues. But that was before Will’s fellow professor—the  _ musician _ —Hannibal spat the word—had somehow sensed Hannibal’s true nature. Had alerted the hunter who had set a trap for Hannibal. Had set the plan into motion that used Will as bait. The hunter had not accounted for Will though. His cunning boy. The flash of pride seared deep, tempered instantly by the black fury Hannibal had been in for too many days to count. Will still slept. His wounds were clean and dressed but deep, and Hannibal’s lust for Will and blood and retribution balanced on the most delicate of blades. If Will succumbed to his wounds, Hannibal would use every trick he had learned and earned and stolen to bind Will to him and this sphere. Destiny be damned. It had brought him Will for a reason, and Hannibal’s very existence would not allow for a fucking soldier of fortune to deliver death at his whim. Not to their doorstep. Not without suffering his own consequences. And Hannibal intended to wring every bit of suffering from the nimrod for each drop of Will’s blood—his blood—that had spilled.

Hannibal felt a distant twinge of conscience. Will had not agreed to the conversion—yet. Hannibal hadn’t wanted to compel him. He didn’t want Will resenting him in a century or two when the full weight of a half life came crashing down upon his head. He needed Will to choose this—choose him—of his own accord. Hannibal mused often on whether he would have agreed to this life himself, but as with every other creature in this world, he did not choose his becoming. He simply was. Will had asked him. Only once. Even if Hannibal had recalled all the details of the  _ how, _ the  _ why  _ had been lost to him lifetimes ago. All he remembered was pain. Will himself was too familiar with the sensation. Perhaps that is what had lured Hannibal to him in the first place. The first being in decades that captured his attention for longer than a night, and it had to be the one with the deepest capacity for empathy that Hannibal had ever encountered. Hannibal had considered devouring him—briefly—but young Will had forestalled this by correctly anticipating Hannibal’s every move.

Hannibal knew they were looking for him, knew that of all the bodies he’d left in his wake, he had finally left one deemed “important” to the wrong people. In another world, the man would have been mediocre at best; he considered himself a predator, but Hannibal had tasted the cowardice on him in the end. Merely being born with the right pedigree excuses all manner of unsavory sins. In reality, his meal had been a schoolyard tormentor, grown up at last, and searching for a victim among the women working their way through the inn that night. Hannibal simply found his own prey first. Still, Hannibal was grateful to the trumped-up bully. Without him, Hannibal wouldn’t have intervened to spare the women. His prey’s family wouldn’t have been so upset—not from affection, but from the arrogance flowing through their veins and the vanity bred into them, demanding preservation at any cost. Without that breathtaking hubris, they wouldn’t have ordered a more thorough investigation into the corpse, and an expert would never have been called upon: Will. His Will.

Will had given Hannibal his life; Hannibal would not fail him now.

The vampire sat immobile in the center of the room. The sun rose and the day passed, and the only sign of life was the gentle rise and fall of Will’s chest and the slow drip of their prisoner’s blood behind him—the useless creature that Will had flung at Hannibal’s feet before collapsing himself. Hannibal filled his lungs slowly. Will’s blood was a buffet, hearty and filling, a spread of every delicacy imaginable and a sinful invitation to the sweetest overindulgence. Hannibal would never harm young Will, but his taste always made Hannibal glutinous, even after mastering self-control centuries ago. Self-control which he considered loosening his grip upon after soaking in the other scents wafting from the creature chained to the stone wall, blood flow bound securely and, as yet, unmolested. Hannibal inhaled again and tasted citrus and sun and spun sugar steeped in the richest of whiskeys—the dessert snuck from the kitchens long after the banquet ends and all the guests have disappeared back to their own homes.

It was a heady combination.

Priorities, however. The hunter would not stop once he discovered his musician missing. Hannibal amused himself imagining the mess that young Will had left behind when extracting his colleague. Given the bloody and beaten manner of their arrival earlier, Hannibal hoped the hunter was currently suffering a fraction of the panic that Hannibal himself had survived for that small eternity. It would be nothing compared to what he would endure from the vampire personally.

The treetops were steadily gaining ground against the skies before the vampire sprang to his feet. The retreating sun illuminated Will’s long lashes, gold against ivory. All of his hair and beard were matted with blood and sweat and fluids and still, it shone amber in the failing light. Hannibal would need to bathe him immediately to ensure the clean curls still sprang back into place when he ran his fingers through them. Will’s heartbeat was a bit stronger now; Hannibal sensed a twin ache somewhere inside. He gazed down at Will as his nocturnal brethren slowly came to life. At long last, the sun sank below the horizon in defeat, and the vampire straightened. A call and response requires both parts.  _ Commençons. _

He strode across the room and kicked the man shackled to the wall. “You. Awake. Now.”

The man stirred feebly. Cornflower blue eyes opened slowly and widened when they saw the vampire’s face inches from their own. The prisoner scrambled backwards and smacked his head against the stone wall behind him, curses drowned out by his chains clanking together.

Hannibal waited. The man finally fell silent, curled into a ball as though hoping if he forced himself between the cracks, he would fall through the rock wall to freedom. How quaint. Unfortunately for the musician, Hannibal would leave no ground for his quarry to flee to. The beat of his heart was almost shrill in its panic while Will’s plodded along, uninspired. Hannibal ached for balance to return, indulging himself in imagining the ease with which he could relieve this  _ musician _ (for Hannibal realized he was not all human) of his life force and bring his dear boy back to this plane—to him—instead.

Hannibal spoke softly. “You know what I am.”

The hostage gulped, jerked his head, once.

“You know who he is.”

Blue eyes flicked past Hannibal to the body lying on the table, pale and still.

Another head jerk.

Hannibal leaned ever so slightly closer. “You know  _ what _ he is—to me.”

Hannibal savored the shriek of a heart trapped within its cage. His tongue—healed now—traced his fangs as he weighed his options. Shackles rang sweetly as the lutist willed himself to melt into stone. “Please, I—"

Hannibal cocked his head. The captive froze, rabbit heart slamming wildly. Hannibal hmphed. “Would you kindly quiet yourself? If you suffer a cardiac episode, I am not entirely certain I would help alleviate it.”

He stared at Hannibal, mouth gaping. Hannibal continued, “Your wounds are still open, and your increased pulse will only make you bleed out more quickly. Not that I would mind you succumbing to your injuries, but your corpse would serve as an inconvenience when I have more pressing concerns at the moment.”

The musician swallowed hard and managed a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“You know what would happen if he died.”

The smallest of nods, blue saucers beginning to shine.

“Then you know you will help me.”

A pause, and then a final nod, defeat accepted silently.

“Tell me about your hunter.”

***

Geralt followed the trail to the edge of the nearby woods, where everything went cold. He left Roach grazing and slipped between the trees, potion casting his already frayed nerves over the edge and with them, any sense of control he’d ever feigned. Jaskier was gone— _ taken _ from him—after Geralt had vowed never to allow anything to happen to him. After the mountain, when Geralt willingly groveled for months and lived a winter with Jaskier and survived his moron brothers at the keep, mending what he had destroyed—Geralt had lost him. Geralt had failed in the singular thing he had sworn to himself that he never would: keep Jaskier safe at any cost. He had only tried to help Geralt with the bounty, and now Geralt had no way of finding him short of scurrying into the lion’s den and squeaking his demands.

Jaskier’s quarters had been a mess. The bed was overturned, all his precious tomes and journals ripped apart and flung to every corner, and his ridiculous clothes were torn to shreds. And everything, every bit of the room that Geralt could see, dripped scarlet—so much so that for a moment Geralt’s world tipped sideways because Jaskier simply would not have survived that much blood loss. His vision tunneled into black until the scent slammed into him. Not all of the blood was Jaskier’s. The bard was still alive. He had to be. Geralt would know otherwise, surely.

The night had its own pulse. Geralt saw every leaf twitch and heard every heartbeat. Rabbits and foxes pitter-pattered through the undergrowth as the wind whispered through the trees. The sounds swirled together into a hum and then Geralt couldn’t hear his heart or his own breathing. The noises clashed and threatened to drown him, the pounding of the animals and the whistling of the leaves grew into a steady rumble and then the entire forest was roaring at him and he had wandered directly into the monster’s jaws trying to rescue his heart from being shattered because of him. The swell crashed over his head and then he was under, drowning, shaking and struggling to keep his head afloat, and normally when this happened he could focus on Jaskier’s heartbeat but Jaskier was nowhere to be found and oh god what if Geralt never found him, was never able to follow that steady heartbeat back to solid ground—to Jaskier—again.

The air was gone.

Geralt almost sank to his knees to claw at the ground and burrow deep to the otherworld to drag Jaskier back to this Sphere—to him. He would crack this world beneath his feet, break a mountain with his bare hands, and feed the bloodsucker to himself one square inch of skin at a time if Jaskier was dead. Because if he was killed then Geralt had broken his promise and wasn’t good for anything anymore. He had sworn to Jaskier that he would do better,  _ be _ better, after the mountain. After flinging all that venom at Jaskier and driving him away. After realizing that the bard was the only one who loved him by choice. Chaos had brought him Yennefer and destiny had given him Ciri but for once, the bard had hunted him down, bound himself to the White Wolf—from curiosity and then wonder and then genuine affection, despite Geralt’s best efforts. And now Geralt had been careless enough to lose his heart, and it was once again his own fault.

The animals wailed and the wind screeched and the cacophony became a mob jeering at him and his utter failure. They all would have been better off if he had succumbed during the Trials. He only ever wrecked everything. And now Jaskier was lost and Geralt was alone again as he deserved, and that last vestige of hope that Geralt had carried—that he might be redeemable to _ someone _ —was gone as well. In its place bloomed a deep mass of wrath and loathing; from that pit came forth a howl more bestial and eternal than the surrounding sentinels. It threatened to rip out the ancient trees by their roots and lay the mountains flat because his bard was gone and all was lost.

Distantly, beyond the edges of the small abyss that had opened wide to consume everything around it, there was a silence. If the Witcher hadn’t been tipping past the edge to see just how deeply he could hurl himself, he would have heard it. As it was, the silence moved quickly, leaving in its wake a trail of hearts quivering from fear or flight. It honed in on the Witcher’s brink of despair and gained speed, trembling branches the only indication of its passing. The forest roared, and still the quiet closed in. Only the most primeval of instincts warned the Witcher that the silence speeding towards him was preternatural and not a blessing. The hunter spun as  _ something  _ collided squarely with his chest and sent him flying into an ironwood far older than him, trunk and bones cracking loudly in warning. Geralt leapt to his feet and immediately levitated sideways into a thicket of buttercups, barbs snaring at his hair and skin for a sacrifice of their own. He ripped himself free and waited, panting. The wind whistled low and the night still beat, but the animals were silent, willing themselves invisible with nowhere to run.

Geralt growled softly, “Come. Out.”

The moon beamed down. Only the green moved. Geralt stepped forward. The potion enhanced every one of his senses so he could hear every creature skittering away from his footsteps, but he couldn’t hear the vampire. At the outer edges of his hearing, nightlife carried on as normal: a rodent shrieked as a raptor spirited it away and a serpent slid into a dwelling not its own, searching. But within his sphere, Geralt couldn’t hear the silence or see anything larger than an owl passing judgement from a nearby tree. He crept into the open and waited.

Minutes passed. Geralt did not move. The forest quietly came back to life, although its inhabitants knew to give a wide berth to the statue suddenly rooted in their midst. Clouds drifted across the moon, and only the slow thump of his heart told the Witcher that he did, in fact, still exist. The owl flew away, and Geralt was alone. Alone but still breathing. Which meant Jaskier was still breathing, possibly, because otherwise the vampire would have simply killed Geralt and been done with it. No, if Geralt still lived then so did Jaskier. The vampire let him live for a reason, even if it was slow torture to flaunt Jaskier’s mangled body—

Stop. Stop. Focus. The vampire did not want to be hunted. The other professor—the healer—was of value to the vampire. The healer was the one who had taken Jaskier—a bargaining chip for his master. Jaskier had fought, which explained the blood. Geralt was only alive because the vampire’s pet was still alive, so Jaskier was still alive for the vampire to use. If Jaskier was dead, the vampire had nothing and therefore would have simply killed Geralt to cover his tracks. Jaskier had fought to stay alive, even if just barely.

Jaskier was alive. He simply was. Geralt would know otherwise. Jaskier was alive.

Something deep within Geralt’s chest unclenched with a soft growl.

The Witcher regained his sense of purpose below; above, starlight tangled with the mists. Clouds passed and robbed the skies of their clear view of earth. Moonlight peered through the wisps drifting across her face and illuminated her woods, swaying gently far below. Branches bent beneath the weight of scavengers; thrushes darted past bats, hissing; foragers slunk through the undergrowth searching for a midnight snack. High, high above the forest floor where these small lives carried out their nightly business, a hunter circled lazily. Light gleamed off snowy down and lit the raptor from within, a white flame drifting aimlessly above the clearing where the wolf stood sentry. It plunged.

That wasn’t an owl.

Geralt had no warning. The vampire drove into him deep, rendering him breathless and his spine collapsed like an accordion. He swallowed earth and blood and threw both arms up and out, shoving an  _ Aard  _ at the boulder planted atop his chest. It worked—the weight was gone but so was any memory of oxygen. And then Geralt was flying into a tree again—headfirst this time—an elm, maybe—so he threw his arms out to spare his neck and then everything became a blur. Geralt landed hits (ha) and the vampire tossed him like a ragdoll—a tree, some bushes, the largest fucking rock to exist on the Continent. Never enough to shatter bone but just enough to hurt like a bitch. He’d manage to get to his feet and then find himself somewhere else—snorting up pond scum, facedown under a log, stuck in a tree. At one point he was bent double over a branch, wondering if it was physically possible to swallow his own lung. One of his swords had disappeared—the silver one, of course.  _ Jaskier. _ He heaved himself head first off the branch and collapsed in a heap ten feet below.

He may have passed out. He wasn’t really sure at this point. His next memory was of shoes inches from his nose—black, gleaming, and irritatingly unscuffed. He would have dug a nail into the leather if he remembered how to move. He twitched an arm and set his entire body aflame— _ fuck. _ Jaskier. He could get a new bard, right. Sure.  _ Move. _

Cool hands lifted the Witcher gently, almost reverently, from the dirt and raised him high. One hand encircled his throat as Geralt’s feet dangled in open air. Geralt only saw fangs so he sank his thumbs towards the eyes and was slapped away like an unruly kitten. The vampire’s face looked almost—proud? Geralt choked in a breath and was set onto his feet, marble hand still caressing his neck. Geralt swayed but did not fall. The vampire released him and waited.  _ Move. _

Geralt’s fist slammed into the vampire’s nose and though he heard a satisfying crunch, his entire arm reverberated like the bell of a monastery, calling its fledglings to prayer. The vampire chuckled and backhanded the Witcher into another tree, an oak this time, teeth clanging inside his skull. Geralt tasted more blood. He lay there, staring up at the stars. Pretty sure they were laughing at him too.

The animals had all fled so Geralt only heard the wind. The vampire stood in the clearing where Geralt had, the silence of him deeper and more absolute than a crypt. He was a walking void, simply missing from the sensory world if he chose, even for a Witcher. He didn’t seem old—fifty or so in human years—but Geralt knew this meant nothing. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, every part of his body protesting, and did not take his eyes off the vampire. The vampire, in turn, blotted the blood dripping from his nose, which had already begun to heal, and neatly tucked the kerchief back into his breast pocket.

Geralt finally stood, wincing. At least a couple of ribs were split; all his other bones only felt completely disjointed. His jaw ached from the vampire’s handling, but overall, he was still in one piece. The potion and all his mighty Witcher senses only served as the briefest alarm system against a being as ancient as this. The light trickling down through the trees turned the vampire’s hair black then silver and back again as branches shifted. Eyes lit with intelligence and awareness did not blink as Geralt stared back. The high cheekbones and mouth reminded Geralt of the statues scattered around Oxenfurt the few times that he’d visited Jaskier. The creature was nearly as tall as Geralt but slimmer; Geralt knew this too meant fuck all. It had speed, experience, and probably centuries more of knowledge on the art of the hunt. Centuries more of knowledge in general, if that sharp gaze was anything to go by. The Witcher knew when he was outmatched. That the vampire hadn’t killed him likely meant that his human toy was still alive, which meant there was a chance, however slight, that Jaskier—

Geralt forced himself to inhale slowly. There was no fight to be won here, and running was not an option. A deal, then, although Geralt couldn’t fathom what the vampire would want with him.

“Where. Is. Jaskier,” said the mouse to the lion.

The vampire cocked his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and lilting but carried across the short distance clearly as though he had murmured directly into Geralt’s ear. “You named it?”

Geralt bared his teeth. The vampire studied him serenely. The Witcher’s loosened plait was silver-white and entangled with leaves and muck. His eyes were like night—not that his potions would ever help, but Hannibal could appreciate the effort. His armor was worn and seemed bare in places, but the swords he carried would gleam with care if unsheathed. Which he had not attempted to do once, even when Hannibal had observed him stalking through the forest from the treetops.

Hannibal smiled, moonlight gleaming off each fang. “I wonder if his blood sings as pretty as his voice.”

Geralt snarled, eyes shining with the abyss that Hannibal had stared down the barrel of for far too long.  _ Aidoneus. _ In another world, this hunter would have been feared as a god. Leave it to men to tear down their betters, the beings who would lead them into a new age but for their small minds. If the Faceless One ever showed their true form, Hannibal very much suspected they would find kin with this Witcher.

“Touch Jaskier and I’ll entomb you in silver myself. I’ll even throw your pet in with you for company. How long would he last before you ripped him to shreds from hunger or hate?” Geralt bared his teeth again in a savage grin. “Maybe it’s all the same to you by now. You ripped apart those farmers without thought or care. That wasn’t feeding. That was pure sport.”

The vampire offered a smaller smile, almost pitying. “Extreme acts of cruelty require a high degree of empathy. You should know that better than most. You deal in death, Witcher, same as me. Perhaps that is why Destiny saw fit to bring us together. It is responsible for both our  _ becomings, _ after all.”

Geralt barked a laugh. “Any empathy you had bled from you long ago. If destiny brought you to me, maybe it was to put you and your pet down like strays.”

A frown now. “My ‘pet,’ as you put it, is rather fond of dogs. I would appreciate you refraining from implying insults. You have already caused him enough damage. There is no call for incivility.”

“Is that what you told the farmers before you slaughtered them? Entire villages will be short food this winter if the farms can’t get the crops into stores. Or was that your goal: easier pickings.”

“Nonsense. My bounty tastes far better when content and relaxed. Fear, of course, is an aphrodisiac for many, but generally speaking, I have outgrown that particular inclination many years ago. When I claim a mortal for my own, the blood sings with joy. The taste…” The vampire trailed off, eyes unfocused and almost dreamy. Geralt briefly considered unsheathing his blade and lopping its head off, but (assuming that he wasn’t already dead where he stood) outright aggression would only result in carnage. And he needed Jaskier.

Hannibal shook himself from his reverie. Another flash of fangs—enticing this time—coupled a flash in Geralt’s mind of the Witcher, buried deep inside his bard, pinning him to the bed, while the vampire sank into him from behind.

Geralt stilled. Hannibal cocked an eyebrow. “How intriguing,” he breathed. “Do you always find yourself attracted to the creatures you hunt, Witcher? Or am I a lucky exception?”

Geralt cursed inwardly. Fucking potions. The vampire didn’t have to be a mind reader; all his senses were finely attuned to his prey’s anatomy—Geralt was no exception.

“Maybe I’m not immune to your glamours. Isn’t this how you lure your victims? Give me Jaskier whole, and your head will stay attached to the rest of you.”

Hannibal preened. “My dear boy, I am not using any of my particular charms at the moment. But I can still smell you, your sweat, your blood humming in your veins. Your heart beating ever so slowly, ever for your  _ bard." _ Hannibal’s whisper skittered down Geralt’s spine. Geralt gritted his teeth.

“I do wonder how far you would go to save him? How near the edge of madness you would dare to dance on your minstrel’s behalf? You  _ thrive  _ in the face of the contempt of the very humans you try so desperately to save, to spare from the darkness. Even with your unique abilities, that must wear on one such as yourself after all these years on—the Path, is it?”

Geralt glared. “How did you—”

“Dear boy, when you have lived as much as I have, you run into all manner of interesting beings. I have encountered all types of predator and prey. Did you truly believe you were the first Witcher I have known?”

Hannibal smirked and Geralt’s flash of irritation stabbed directly into his groin. The smirk widened into a grin. He was toying with Geralt. Jaskier was trapped somewhere in gods knew what condition, and this fucking leech was teasing him. Geralt shifted slightly, and Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. The vampire still stood clasping his hands behind his back, limbs loose and easy, but now the air between them held weight. If Geralt closed his eyes, he wouldn’t sense the vampire at all—his stillness was so complete that he faded into the forest.  _ My, what big teeth you have. _

“I wonder at the White Wolf serving as guardian to his many flocks,” Hannibal purred. “Wolves are natural predators. Yet you protect the very ones who drove you to become this. Why?”

“Because it’s the life. I didn’t choose it, but it’s what I have. And humans didn’t make me into this; other Witchers did. But you already know that, or was your other Witcher stingy with details?”

Hannibal ignored this. “The Witchers would not exist but for humans dominating what they should not. Humans thieving magic and knowledge from their elders, their betters, for the sake of spreading their own species as one would a disease. I would applaud humanity its successful invasion if not for its inherent inability to pursue higher methods of existence. So much untapped potential, and all they have done for millennia is squabble like children at a game of Gwent." The vampire tsked. “There’s a reason I prefer cyvasse.”

“I’ve tried to stay out of human ‘squabbles.’ It was never difficult until recently,” Geralt said wryly.

“Yes, forgive me for mentioning them, but some of your wounds do look more recently acquired than others. Something in you did not heal properly. Provided that I do not slaughter you for costing me the life of my  _ pet, _ might I offer you my healing abilities? I have acquired many skills in my travels, and young Will is a master healer when he is, of course, not the patient.” The lightness of his tone betrayed nothing of his rage. Fascinating as Geralt was, the Continent would be short a wolfshead if Will did not wake.

Geralt studied him. “Any wounds your healer suffered were his own doing. You can’t give a human fisstech and expect him to handle it well, no matter how much of a tolerance he may have built up.”

Hannibal stilled even further, disappearing almost completely into the dark. Only the gleam of his eyes gave him away to Geralt’s. “William’s alleged tolerance is no concern of yours. He would not have needed it at all if he had not been stolen from me—by you.”

His eyes shone silver. His words were the quietest whisper of silk. Every nerve in Geralt’s body screamed at him to flee because the alternative was to draw his blade—he almost laughed aloud at how thoroughly he would fail to even touch steel, let alone unsheathe it—and bring a death sentence to him and Jaskier both.

Geralt exhaled, then plunged. “Your healer still lives.”

“For now.”

“Do you believe he’ll wake?”

“It is still uncertain.”

“A trade, then.”

Hannibal paused. “Your bard—”

“For me.”

The predatory tilt of his head, mind calculating, sizing up the Witcher.

Geralt shook his head once. “No tricks. Let Jaskier go—safely—and you can do whatever you please with me. You and your healer.”

“If my  _ healer _ should die, why would I let your pet go free? Why would I not keep you both? And do as I please with you regardless?”

Geralt smiled. And Hannibal would have wept if he could, for here was the very face that Hannibal had longed for and wondered at each day of his existence. The entity to which Hannibal had long ago devoted his entire being. The force he knew to be greater even than Chaos, for Chaos could be wielded by such low creatures as humans. They believed their world had come from Chaos and that Destiny was an ally to them, but Hannibal knew better. He knew that Destiny was capricious, at best, and even the void will quiet Chaos, eventually. And so he dedicated his nights and seasons to seeking out the greatest pleasures and most profound joys—whether his own or that of his prey—for the end always tastes sweeter in the heights of ecstasy.

This was the very face of death incarnate.

“How far would you go for your healer?” Geralt asked softly.

Hannibal gazed at him in silence. The forest settled in, every living creature skittering through the underbrush away from these sovereigns two. Wings spanned the sky and cast that small corner of the Spheres into complete darkness (just for a moment), and mercury and obsidian fell against each other, and the very moon turned her face away.

In the distance, a lone wolf howled.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever. Unsure if I tagged correctly (my bad)  
> Likely multiple parts buuut Idk how many.  
> I know where I WANT this to go, but Idk how we're getting there lol pls stay tuned ty xo


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